The Unlikely
by Shumina
Summary: Follow the storm as it follows fate and brings together unlikely companions.
1. Part the First

Darkness could have been a blade drawn across their throats and the chill that came with it, could have been a shawl. With little brush to make a fire, the three gathered up what they could find and made a flame to warm them by, albeit any real warmth was provided by the swill.  
  
"I'm telling you, Cartas, this isn't natural. It's summer for Endel's sake," one figure said while hugging himself, rocking back and forth on his heels.  
  
"And what do you want me to do about it, Idiot? Snap my fingers and tell Endel to warm your arse?" Cartas responded before taking a swig from a dirty bladder. He wiped his mouth with shivering fingers. "Andre, you got any more of this stuff? Tastes like pig's spit, but it does its job." He tossed the now empty bladder into the dirt.  
  
Andre looked at his two companions contemptuously, considering them. "Aye, but it's me last canteen of it and you two will have to pay, or I'll be drinking it all meself."  
  
"You sorry ass's git! Without me, we'd all be in shackles or cleaning pits or worse. Took all three of us to get this here fire going and you'll be resting your sorry mug on one of me blankets just like you has been," Cartas gritted through blackened and cracked teeth. "Now get us that last canteen or you'll not be resting on me blankets or anywhere else for that matter."  
  
"Yeah," the second man postured; earning him a smack from Cartas that knocked him off his heels, squealing.  
  
"I don't need you to back me word, Harha," Cartas growled, rubbing his hand where he'd struck Harha.  
  
Andre looked as if to protest, but rescinded, a glint of the firelight caught Cartas' eye and he didn't like what he saw behind them. Mumbling a curse, he stood, took up a brand and went to the mules. Harha sat back up and wiped a tear as he threw a small branch on the fire.  
  
Andre, Cartas, and Harha had been on the run from the local militia for eight days and their supplies as well as their spirits were getting low. Dodging a draft, the three conspired to flee after being assigned tent mates.  
  
Killing their sergeant in his sleep, they slipped out of camp and stole three mules to make their way with. Though horses would have made a faster choice, mules could get by on less food and water, and the horses were well guarded besides. They avoided patrols for three days before they considered themselves far enough away that they'd been given up on.  
  
Andre tried to ignore the chastising Harha was getting for wasting precious wood as he searched his mule for the last canteen. While the three of them had worked well together as a team to escape, Cartas had taken it upon himself to assume leadership. Andre and Harha didn't mind at first, but as time passed, it became obvious that Cartas had a darker side to him than even they. Cartas quickly took control of the strongest mule and the choicest food when they ate. He was always reminding them how it was he that had enabled them to escape.   
  
Indeed, in eight days, it had gotten so annoying, Andre had entertained the idea of going back to camp and reporting that it was all Cartas' idea and that he'd be happy to join them in the hunt to bring him to justice. It was just a shame that Andre had no idea where they were now and no way to know how to get back to camp.  
  
There was another smack and Andre could hear Harha whimper. "Blast it, Cartas, I'm hurrying! Quit hitting Harhas, aye? You'll have your swill in a minute." He dug around his satchel and found the canteen. He shook the rusted, dented thing and grinned to himself when he heard the sloshing inside. It was in bad shape, but a canteen made of metal was never given to mere troops. They had to make do with bladders for their water and those would usually rot without proper care, adding a foul taste to anything they drank. Another smack and this time, a scream followed.  
  
"Damn it, Cartas!" Andre bellowed, "Hold your hand!" He turned and walked back to the fire, freezing when he saw them. Though the night was cold as winter, a shiver far deeper crept up his spine, raising bumps up his back and neck.  
  
Before him, the bodies of Cartas and Harha, shriveled and broken lay next to the fire. In flashes of dying firelight, Andre could see that under their dusty and torn cloaks, the skin was wrinkled and crisp, as if burnt. Their eyes were sunken deep into their skulls and lips peeled back against dry gums revealing dead smiles and swollen tongues.  
  
Andre tried to say their names, but it was a shivering, shaking noise that escaped instead. He moved to take a step towards them but the stench hit and he doubled over retching. After emptying his stomach, he summoned up the courage to speak.  
  
"C…Cartas?"  
  
There was a noise from the mules at that moment that caused Andre to jump. A screaming that sounded like mules but it was a noise that he'd never heard a living animal make. Shrill enough to shatter glass, it died down into a gurgle just as soon as it had started.   
  
Andre turned, again the chill. In the distance, the night was breached by a flash of lightning. The thunder rolled what seemed like a long moment later. The whispers started coming from the direction of the mules then. Blood drained from his limbs and face, Andre didn't notice he was shivering so much. As another mule screamed its death, he ran into the dark, crying. He ran towards the coming storm. 


	2. Part the Second

It wasn't Shane's fault that the wagon wheel buckled under the weight, yet he blamed himself. He chastised himself for trying to make the ride in the rain, knowing full well that the storm would soak the already pitted road, causing dangerous slips and hidden dangers in the puddles. Anyone with any sense would have stayed home, he thought, climbing down. Shane was always good at blaming himself, for anything that ever went wrong.  
  
Shane had developed this particular skill from a most accomplished teacher, his father. Blaming Shane for every stroke of ill luck that occurred to the family, he'd make the beatings, emotional and physical, quite regular. Once, lightning had struck the barn and the ensuing fire made quick work of the animals within. Shane's father beat him black and blue, all the while screaming curses that it would never have happened if he hadn't the "demon's child."  
  
Standing in the rain, soaked through to the bone, Shane examined the wheel. The spokes had snapped after a jarring from a pit in the road, the loud snap startling the horses. Shane looked up to the front of the wagon at his two horse team.  
  
"Father will have my hide for this," he said to his horses. Their ears flicked as if to understand. "Can't say I'd blame him. It'll be well past dark before I can change the wheel and get back home." He stopped. If he didn't finish the trip and sell the goods, he'd return empty handed and receive another beating. He shoulders sagged a little more. There was no way to win.  
  
Tears welled in Shane's eyes. He allowed himself to cry. The tears would not be noticeable in the rain, not that there was anyone else stupid enough to be out in this weather. On top of that, he would not have been able to stop the sobbing if he'd tried. Four days of solitary travel, constantly worrying that something would go wrong and earn him another beating had caused his will to become so weak that when something finally did go wrong, he couldn't help himself. Shane slumped in the mud and wept.  
  
Shane would have cried for hours if the storm had not intensified. The comforting pat-pat-pat of the rain had steadily gotten stronger, heavier, until it brought him from his misery, reminding him of the stinging slaps he'd received so many times in the past. He stood and fruitlessly wiped his eyes. Getting down to the business of replacing the wagon wheel, he knew he'd have to hurry to make the most of the daylight left to him. He looked around for rocks and small logs to prop the wagon up while he changed the wheel.  
  
The sun, fickle on cloudless days, can be simply unforgiving during storms and so faded faster than Shane had thought possible. Working in the dark, soaked, and hungry, he panged for some of the vegetables that were to be sold at market, but he dared not touch them. He kept busy, even when the thunder started rolling in. He'd pause to wipe his nose and to calm the horses by wiping them down. Although they were wet again as soon as his brush passed over, it had a calming effect. By the time the wheel was replaced, the lightning had set in, bringing the full brunt of the storm to bear.  
  
"Easy, Poods and Chance," Shane almost shouted to the horses as he climbed into the driver's seat. Taking the leash up in bloody knuckles, he had to pull hard to keep them from bolting. The wagon shook free from its muddy rest with a couple of jarring starts. Shane and his precious cargo of wool and vegetables were on its way again to Willendorf.  
  
Shane had needed to make for town as quick as possible to catch up on time and to get to shelter, but he found himself really pulling hard to keep the horses from moving too quickly in the mud. A slip could injure one of the horses and if the wagon lost another wheel, there was no replacement. He lost all control when the hail started falling.  
  
"Whoa, steady, boys!" he shouted, pulling even harder on the reigns. Shane knew the bits had to be tugging hard at the horses and causing pain, but they ignored him. The pelting from the hail was getting worse. Bits the size of snowflakes were now raining down and showing no sign of stopping or getting smaller.  
  
The panic welling up in Shane subsided when a hailstone the size of his fist crashed into his skull, knocking him from his seat. Near unconscious, he rolled over backwards and landed amidst bolts of wool and bushels of carrots and radishes.  
  
Poods and Chance, free from the hindering tugs of their master whinnied and pulled as hard as they could to get away from the unrelenting storm. The flashes of lightning were frightening, the thunder even more so and the hailstones added physical punishment to their fears.  
"Steady, boys," Shane mumbled, hardly aware he was lying in the produce. Oddly, he felt warm and peaceful; the rocking of the wagon and the steady pounding of the storm was having a pacifying affect, lulling him to sleep. He never heard the shriek of the horses, nor felt the sudden jarring of the wagon. He was briefly aware he was sailing through the air.  
  
When Shane woke, his head felt as if he'd been celebrating his coming of age again, save he didn't have a woman in his bed. He groaned and looked around. It was still dark, the rain was still falling and he was under a pile of heavy, wet wool and soggy vegetables. Slowly, he stood. Thirty feet away, he could make out the dark shapes of Poods and Chance near the wreckage that was the wagon.  
Stumbling, he made his way to them using the occasional flash of lightning but stopped when he neared. Chance appeared to have been nudging Poods who was collapsed on the ground, his legs twisted and broken. As Shane had gotten closer, he could see terrible rends in Poods' flesh and Chance hadn't been nudging his partner, he was eating him.  
"Chance, what are you doing?" Shane asked, disbelief clear on voice. Another lightning burst illuminated the scene just as Chance lifted his head to regard his master. His eyes were dead and what was left of his face was shriveled and taut against a dripping, broken skull. Chance gave a hollow, lifeless grunt and took a step toward Shane.  
  
Shane's scream was blotted out by the thunderclap that echoed across the dark and stained plain. 


	3. Part the Third

***AUTHOR'S NOTE: I want to express my thanks at the wonderful and positive reviews I've gotten thus far. Writing this story is a treat and I have quite a ways to go. What you've been reading is one of four parts of the prelude. The chapters and the real meat of the story have not even started yet! Thank you very much for your patience and again for your patronage. Your time is precious and I'm honored you would spend some of it reading my work."***  
____________________________________________________________________  
  
"I am sick of this rain," he poked his ember lazily into the dying embers of the fire and spat.  
  
"Aye, and the lightning, and the hail, and all this blasted cold. It's supposed to be just so you'd need a good breeze to cool you off by now," his patrol partner answered. He was pacing in his armor, away from the lean-to, the rain pattering off of his leather pauldrons. He kicked at a soggy glob of mud and nearly slipped, cursing.  
  
The storm had been steady for four days straight with no one believing it would be ending anytime soon. Constant downpours had made an absolute mess of the roads and the column of soldiers had had to form camp until the rain stopped. Three days of being encamped. Three days of inaction. To a soldier, three days of sitting out a storm, waiting for the road to dry was boring enough to ask for trench detail. Orson and McClut were quite happy the day before when they'd been assigned to forward guard but even that brief excitement had worn away into memory, as did staying dry.  
  
McClut had taken a favored stick, his "mud stick," and had proceeded to wipe the heels of his boots down yet again. It was a good waste of time and there was plenty of security in it as in a few moments, his boots would again be caked in mud. He didn't mind the rain as much as Orson, but he hated the cold. He'd grown up in warmer climes and waking up shivering every morning for the last week had given him a cough.  
  
"You know that's useless," Orson sighed, not taking his eyes from the embers. McClut turned his head from his heal and just looked at Orson mindlessly probing a dying fire. After a moment, Orson looked out at McClut and the two started laughing, each shaking his head at the absurdity of the moment. A horse quickly rode from behind the lean-to and reared, whinnying, the rider looking stern at his subordinates.  
  
"Attention, men!" the metal clad officer said sharply. McClut stood swiftly and Orson quickly joined him hitting his head on the roof of the lean-to on the way. "You two having a good laugh?" the officer said at length. The two stammered.  
  
"Sorry, milord."  
  
"Beg your pardon, sir."  
  
"Save it, "the officer finally smiled and raised a mailed hand, "You two are a sorry sight and I'll not have your belittle yourselves any more than you already are, you soggy rats." The smile under the helmet was full and bright, assuring Orson and McClut that they were not in any trouble. Officer Heilbach dismounted, shaking the rain from the yellow cloak of his station. The weight of the armor sank him an inch into the soft ground. He reached under his cloak and drew out a small canteen.  
  
"Pepper ale?" he offered.  
  
"Thank you, sir," McClut replied and took the canteen. After taking a draught, he handed it to Orson. "Any orders, sir?"  
  
The smile on Officer Heilbach faded, "We'll get to those." He moved to the lean-to and appeared to give it a brief inspection. Orson handed the canteen back to McClut who tried to take another drink. Holding the canteen upside down and shaking it, he looked sidelong at Orson and shook his head.  
  
"Would you two say that things are quiet out here," Heilbach said looking at the embers.  
  
"Yes, sir, quite."  
  
"Safe?"  
  
"Oh yes, sir," Orson said. "Very. No one has come this way in all the time we've been here."  
  
Officer Heilbach turned and moved back to face the men. "Good, then you two are to gather your things. We've been sent after the Seer."  
  
Orson's and McClut's shoulders both sagged and the color in their faces drained. Seers were sorcerers in the employ of the King, many foretelling the outcome of stratagems and plots years before they were put into motion, sometimes with disastrous errors. The word of a Seer could sway a King's judgment and often meant life or death to those around him. They were shrouded in mystery and fear.  
  
"S-sir?" McClut asked, a look of horror on his face.  
  
"I don't like it any more than you two seem to," Heilbach responded, "but we've our orders and some oddities have occurred that the other officers think the Seer could shed some light on. I'll give you five minutes to break camp." He passed them then and remounted his horse. Orson and McClut moved quickly and were soon packed and ready, each slinging a leather rucksack over his shoulder and trudging after Officer Heilbach as fast as he could in the mud.  
  
"Sir, this Seer, is he far?"  
  
"I don't believe so," Heilbach replied without looking back, "He was with our column when we left the city. When we stopped to wait out this storm, he headed for the trees." Heilbach considered a moment then thought the two behind him could use a little more detail. "I don't think we were supposed to have him with us, I think he tagged along of his own volition."  
  
Orson gulped, "Sir, is it true they eat bread made of a babe's bones?"  
  
"Stories I think," he said with less conviction than he'd wanted. They pressed on to the beat of the steady rain in silence for hours.  
  
The grey, soggy day was hinting at nightfall when the men stopped to make camp inside the feeble shelter of the forest. Somewhere in the distance, thunder clapped and rolled in low, but powerful resonance. Soldiers are men of routine and setting camp is a standard in their regiment.   
  
Orson silently set up the cloth tents and planted tent steaks while McClut wandered the perimeter, looking for any dry firewood, even though he knew he'd not find any. Officer Heilbach tended and hobbled his horse. Then he set about finding rocks and loose stumps for seats. Dinner was damp, salted pork and mushy rolls washed down with glorious pepper ale. If it weren't for the alcohol, the entire mood would have been painfully low.  
  
They slept reasonably well until a bright flash and a scream from off in the forest brought them scrambling from their tents. The rain was ever present and the pattering of tens of thousands of raindrops upon tens of thousands of leaves confused where the scream came from, but the soldiers knew it was human. With it being too damp to have a fire, the night was unforgiving and the darkness was total. Heilbach quickly whispered instructions to his footmen.  
  
"We stay together, if something attacks us, we form back to back to back. Follow me; I think it came from this way."  
  
The three men, with swords drawn and ready, jumped like children when another scream pierced the night in the direction they were headed. Another flash erupted, painfully bright, some twenty yards through the trees. As they cautiously approached, they could smell the pungent fumes of sulfur and hear a man's screech.  
  
"Back to the foul pits that bore you, beast! I am not your meal this night!"  
  
Yet another bright flash followed. This time they could see a phosphorus bolt arcing down from an upper limb in a tree. It struck the ground in a shower of sparks and something growled.  
  
"Rush the beast!" shouted Heilbach and the three men charged the base of the tree. They all stopped short as what stood before them shocked them and nearly loosened their bowels.  
  
Standing at the base of the tree was a beast six feet tall and covered in damp, matted fur. The beast's features were visible in the dying sparks of the errant bolt of energy. Its legs were haunched like a wolf's or a dog's but its arms were long and muscular, ending in sharp talons. The muzzled face barred inch long fangs and the eyes glowered red at the intruders before fading into the blackness of night. As if to politely concede, it almost bowed its head and emitted a growl, then bolted into the coverage of the forest. At length, the men lowered their swords, horrified at what they'd just seen.  
  
"Well, I think it's gone now," said the man in the tree, climbing down. When he'd landed from the lowest branch the air around him shimmered with light, apparently a spell.  
  
"Ah," Officer Heilbach addressed the man. He was dressed in a simple leather cuirass, tattered pants and a dripping woolen cloak. "Are you the Seer that accompanied us from Fort Bechralden?"  
  
The young man smiled wiping sweat and rain from his brow, "Aye, I am the Seer Moebius." 


	4. Part the Fourth

"Has it been another year?" he asked, raising his head, eyes closed. "So soon."  
  
The answer came, part pity, part hatred, "Indeed. And how has this last year fared you, dear brother? Have the voices finally stopped?"  
  
"No, in fact they've gotten louder…and my vision is failing. Do me a turn and take this sword from my belly, would you? It really itches." Each word took effort, but he could not help himself the humor. He so rarely got to speak to a real being.  
  
The laughter was sincere. "In time perhaps," the voice replied, coming closer. "I must say, you've held out much longer than I thought possible, out here, in the elements, with nothing to feed you but revenge. I do so enjoy our brief visits. They have always provided me with a full year's worth of amusement. I shall truly miss them when you finally expire. But as for your request, tell me, if I did take the sword, what would keep you from killing me?"  
  
"Surely my limbs tell me what my eyes cannot and I am still bound to this cross, hand and foot. And the years have not been so kind as to leave me my strength. You saw to that." He lowered his head again meekly as if to acknowledge defeat.  
  
"Yes, but my eyes work just fine and though I see nothing but a desperate coward and a weakling," he stepped even closer, lifting his prey's head with a long, sharp finger, "I know how deadly you once were and I'll not risk my neck on your pathetic whine." He let the head fall again and turned away. "Have a good year, brother; I shall see you on the next anniversary. I wonder what new ailment time will allow you."  
  
Hearing past the constant voices ringing in his ears, he could hear his captor, his brother walking away, leaving him to the sunlight, the pain of the unhealing wound in his side, and the never ending, torturous hunger. Opening his eyelids, the blurry vision in the center of the dancing spots told him that this was his last chance. He'd not last another damn year. He summoned all the strength he'd salvaged over the long, silent decades and let out a roar of finality.  
  
"You leave me here to die a coward's death when you know it is you who fears!" The hazy figure stopped and turned. "You, with your weak machinations and hallucinated grandeur. You think I covet what you have? It is fetid and stagnates to this day. You bind me and inflict me, hoping to drain that which you never had. If you leave here now, know I will not be here when you return and that you walked from me, the very coward you proclaim me to be! Stand and face me, weakling!"  
  
Exhausted, he tried in vain to focus and although he didn't see it, his brother paused, a delicious, evil smile splayed across his lips.  
  
"Ah, after all these years, dear Vorador, you grow a spine. This is the best visit ever." Faster than Vorador would have been able to register even if he was well, his brother rushed in and held his head in a vice grip, faces an inch apart. He whispered venomously, "Face you, you ask? You plead? Very well, I do so. And just what are you going to do? Hiss at me?"  
  
"Mortis," Vorador snarled.  
  
Vorador struggled against his bonds, chains forged a hundred years past in fires that sputtered out like dying memories lifetimes ago. Though his strength had faded, the chains had not. They resisted the call of time, the ravages of rust and laughed at his vain attempts even now, clinking in mockery. They, like the cross he was affixed to, had been his only partners for a century.  
  
Since the day of his capture, Vorador could not piece together the reasons why Mortis would wish to impose insanity upon his own blood. He could see no source for hate, no single thing for which Mortis would be envious as they shared equal power. The more he'd turned it over in his mind, the more Vorador could not understand until solitude, pain, and hunger muddled his thoughts. Eventually, he stopped caring to learn the reasons why and merely began to hate his brother.  
  
The visits were annual and usually so brief that Vorador could never get any hints from Mortis. Mortis would simply approach, check on the progress of Vorador's delusions and see if new ones had been born. Some years, he would verbally spar with Vorador, but would leave just before exposing even a piece of the secret. He'd made the visits on the anniversary of impaling Vorador and imprisoning him as if to add just a dash more salt upon the wound.  
In between enigmatic visits, Vorador would stare from his cross in a clearing of Termagant Forest. He would stare, watching the animals avoid him as the stench of death never leaves the undead. He would stare at the blazing, burning sun and bake in slow agony. His skin peeling like burnt paper only to heal again overnight. He would stare at the seasons passing, the world living and dying and all the while, he was never allowed to move. If only the chains would break.  
  
"Look at you. Despondent, impotent, you are a poor excuse for one of us," Mortis hissed back. Something had snapped in him, rage plain on his face. "The only reason I let you even live is because Janos would never forgive me if I killed his precious son. But I wonder, if you are so precious, why does he cower in his tired aerie? Why does father do nothing to save you? He told me once you would save Nosgoth from the brink of destruction." He paused, the rage growing strong enough to cause him to shake. "Very well, brother, if you are to be my savior and I am to be nothing but the 'son that couldn't' I suppose can at least take this from you to keep it a challenge!"  
  
Mortis grabbed the sword still hanging in Vorador, lodged in his side since before he was bound to the cross, and tore it violently free. Vorador screamed both in pain and relief. The pain was akin to the blinding light of faith being poured directly into his soul. The relief was from the dying screams of the countless unearthly voices of his dementia. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Vorador realized that the sword was more than it appeared to be. No mortal blade would have caused such injury, to shatter mind as it splintered body. His last thoughts before fading into sweet oblivion were of how he would love to get that blade in his hands for just a brief moment.  
  
Vorador was being shaken, he knew. He must have survived. Then he remembered what Janos Audron had said to him a millennia ago, "Once dead, one cannot truly die."He shook his head, the voices were gone. Fading back into the reality of the moment, he opened his eyes and saw clearly before him a holy man dressed in a plain, cloud grey robe, the hood pulled back. Thunder heralded the coming storm and the trees bent in homage to the wind.  
  
"My child, I heard your screams from far away," the priest said, concern and confusion plain upon his leathery face. "Tell me, are you in pain? Can I help you, my poor child?"  
  
Hunger driving the words behind his voice, Vorador replied, "If you would only step a little closer, kind soul, and help me unbind these chains…" 


	5. Chapter One

Chapter One:  
  
The count was off and no matter how many times he tried, Hegga couldn't get it to come out right. He slammed the cards down and swore.  
  
"Damn this game! Me wife is goin ta string me by me knock-balls," he looked disgustedly on as the dealer's hands slowly reached across, scraping up copper coins and loose cards alike. Hegga's sorrow deepened as he saw the last of his wages vanish under the 'blue lady' and the 'pimpled choir boy', as if seeing the cards cover the money killed any chance that he could deny the outcome. He looked up into the smirking eyes of the man across him, the dealer, and pointed a finger.  
  
"I don't be knowing how you did it, charlatan, but you cheated me. A pox upon you and yours," he spat, the glob of beer and phlegm landing on a stray card. The dealer, keeping his antagonizing gaze upon the angry patron, picked up the 'bloody swordsman' card and wiped it down the corner of the worn, wooden tabletop and smiled again.  
  
"If the gentleman wishes to protest his losses, he is most welcome to lodge a complaint with the barkeep," he waved his free hand toward the bar where a large, grumpy looking man was busy filling a mug from a barrel. "I am here under his blessing and will, of course, concede to his wisdom," his perfectly straight row of teeth practically gleaming, even in the dim firelight of the main room.   
  
Hagga wanted nothing so badly as to smash the man's antagonizing grin in with his rough and worn fist. He knew he'd get no help from the barkeep as he would get a cut of any action the dealer would bring in that night. Granting refunds would cut into his pocket and essentially meant throwing free money to the wind. As part of the Loose Necks mercenaries, Hagga was used to winning, and when he didn't, violence usually fixed the situation. He began to stand and tossed the old wooden table aside, throwing the losses and deck of cards into the air. The table crashed to the floor, snapping a leg and bringing all the attention of those drinking at the Brown Boar Tavern. The barkeep looked up, the mug threatening to overflow as he watched the scene.  
  
  
  
"You'll be givin me coins back, you cheat, or you'll have my boot up yer arse so far you'll be farting toenails the rest of yer days!" Hagga boomed, his fists clenched and raised. One meter from him, the dealer hadn't moved, the same condescending glint in his eye. "Get up you worthless pile of manure! I shovel loads bigger than you every morning before you piss in your pretty brass pot! Stand up I say!" Flecks of spittle burst from his lips with every consonant, landing ungracefully on the dealer's pristine royal blue doublet and trousers. Still the dealer did not move. His smirk dared the drunken gambler on.  
  
  
  
No one noticed the two figures slip quickly inside and take up a table by the wall. One a tall man dressed in the cloud grey robes of a holy priest and the shorter man in dirty and wet homespun, tears small and jagged along the sleeves of his shirt and pants. A small puddle gathered at their feet while they sat. The young man leaned close to his companion.  
  
  
  
"Some food, Father?"  
  
  
  
"I do not hunger. Feed yourself," the voice returned from under a drawn hood.  
  
  
  
"But we've traveled for two days and you've not had water nor food. You must be hungry, father. I'll get us some dinner. I still have coins." He produced a few silver coins from a pocket and held them, a faint glint catching what little light there was in the room.  
  
  
  
He said quietly, "You would do well to put those out of sight. Take in our bearings, young Shane. Your coins, while enough to buy you dinner and perhaps a room, would prove more than enough to purchase your life among these misanthropes," he gestured slightly with a hand towards the patrons. The scene was still while everyone waited to see whether or not violence would ensue where a moment before a game of cards had been played. Shane noticed the crowd and sheepishly hid his money. The gambler and the dealer continued to stare each other down.  
  
  
  
"Well, are you going to strike him or not," the hooded priest spoke up, breaking the silence and turning all the heads for a moment. The priest, however keep a level gaze in Shane's direction. "I am weathered and my associate here is hungry. Either make good on your threat, or remove yourself from the premises so I may get on with my evening."  
  
  
  
Hagga turned his attention back to the dealer, "Priest, what I do ain't no concern of yers. This dainty thing here is a cheat and a thief and I mean to take my earnings back from him. If you want to do yer job, father, say a prayer, cause unless he gives me what's mine, I'll beat it out of him."  
  
  
  
"Well," the dealer smugly replied, calmly folding his hands in his lap, "I recall earning the money from your foolish betting. I cannot be expected to repay that which I rightfully earned. If you attempt to physically impose yourself upon me, be warned, simpleton, I've told you already I have the blessing of the barkeep here. You'd regret the results I'm sure."  
  
  
  
Hagga took a moment to absorb what the dealer said, a look of confusion on his face. He knew he was being challenged somehow, but some of the words escaped him, too fast. He wasn't a stupid man by any means, simply uneducated, and drunk. If only the rest of the Loose Necks had stayed with him instead of going to the brothel. They'd back him for sure and the blue bonnet in front of him would have folded like Hagga's hands did during the games he'd played.  
  
  
  
The hooded priest, still unmoving, said in a voice just loud enough for Shane to hear, "The gambler will regret his decision only a moment when the nobleman draws his dagger. It will be brief." Shane looked back to the irritated drunk, concerned. The priest lowered his head, his left hand rising to his temple.  
  
  
  
In a clouded decision of finality, Hagga stepped forward and struck out at the dealer clumsily. The dealer whirled in a flurry of motion, easily dodging backwards from the awkward swing. A glint of metal and the unmistakable sound of a blade keening free from its sheath blended harmoniously with the dealer's quick spin. It took the briefest of moments, but Hagga shrieked backwards, holding his right arm, a red gash dripping along his forearm from his elbow to his wrist. The dealer quickly hopped and lunged. Hagga's shriek cut out with a gurgle and his eyes went wide. He looked from his arm to the hilt of the dagger reaching out of his chest to the dealer's face, frighteningly close to his own, the ever present, antagonizing smirk smiling back.  
  
  
  
"There you are, sir, your winnings for the evening," the dealer said to the fading light in Hagga's eyes and the dawning horror on his face. "That dagger, from the Mayor of Asthenia, is worth quite a small fortune. Spend it while you may."  
  
  
  
Hagga's reply came as a brief cough of blood and spittle while his eyes rolled slowly back into his head and he fell backwards to the floor with a dull thump. Not a person moved. Shane's mouth gaped open in silent shock. Looking slowly around the tavern, the dealer took two smooth steps to the body and pulled the blade free with a jerk. After wiping the blade on Hagga's vest, he stood and just as quickly as the blade was drawn, it was replaced in some concealed portion of his royal blue doublet.   
  
  
  
The priest's fist slammed down on the table and the bar seemed to come back to life. The patrons turned back to their tables and continued to play games, drink, or simply chat. A tavern worker came and dragged the body to the dreary rain outside and would return to wipe the long streak of blood from the floor. The dealer collected his earnings and, knowing he'd likely see little action the rest of the night, divided what he owed to the tavern keep. Looking at his partner, Shane could see the priest's hands shaking and a horrible, agonized look on his shadowed face.  
  
  
  
"Father, what's wrong?"  
  
  
  
A moment passed while the priest waged mental war with himself. The voices had returned in the days previous and the smell of blood threatened to push him past self control.  
  
  
  
"Perhaps I am hungrier than I thought."  
  
  
  
"One moment then, Father, I'll order us some food."  
  
  
  
"No. I rather don't think I would enjoy the fare they have to offer here. You will stay and eat. I will find another place to feed my appetites," he rose.  
  
  
  
"But Father –"  
  
  
  
"You will stay, Shane. Keep a watchful eye on the dealer there but do not speak to him. I will return shortly." He said the last with a finality that told Shane there would be no argument. With that, the priest stood and left the building. Shane could hear some muttering that he was likely going to offer a final blessing to the drunken gambler. He wondered.  
  
  
  
Since "the night," Shane had wondered just what was happening in his world. Horses eating each other, their flesh dripping from bone, the storm that would never end, merely ebbing back and forth from thunderous maelstrom to the cold drizzle that now fell, even the forest where he'd met the priest seemed to have turned malicious. He shivered and thought to sit right next to the fire to dry himself, but a rough pair of men was busy there risking their fingers to a game of nimblethumbs. Hugging himself, he huddled deeper into his chair and looked for a tavern girl to order from. His eyes met the gaze of the dealer staring at him from the bar.  
  
  
  
Outside, Vorador quickly looked for the deposited body and found it where he suspected it to be, next to the tavern in a back alley. The Thirst was overwhelming. So much so that Vorador allowed himself only a cursory moment to look for any would be witnesses before draining Hagga's corpse of blood. He could not remember what his life was before his maker, Janos, had brought him to the divine path he now walked, but he couldn't imagine a feeling as powerful, as sensual as feeding. His mind numbed and the nightmare voices receded to fractions of a whisper while he drank in the lifeblood of his victim. Vorador would do anything to keep the maddening voices at bay.  
  
  
  
The unfortunate priest that happened to hear Vorador's cries of anger and pain while he was crucified suffered greatly but only briefly after releasing him from the ensorcelled chains that kept him bound in the depths of the Termagant Forest. Vorador had been imprisoned on that spot, with his brother's sword driven through his side, for a century and when the priest had finally freed him, the Thirst had taken control of Vorador. A hundred years it took for a living soul to find him there. And even if fate would lead another living soul there as soon as tomorrow, it would never find a trace of the holy man that, in ignorance of what Vorador truly was, freed the crucified undead.  
  
  
  
As the fog of the Thirst cleared and the voices that had plagued him for a century faded, his thoughts returned to the boy, Shane. Though any other of his age would be qualified to be called a man, Shane was different. It was lucky for Shane to have happened upon Vorador when he did, any sooner or later and Vorador would have surely drained him like he had so many others before him. He was crying, Vorador remembered, he was walking in a daze and crying in the rain. He thought it a rather weak and pathetic sight, seeing the boy dribble on as he was.  
  
  
  
Vorador had heard the boy's snivelling from far behind him on the road through the Termagant. Taking up a spot high in a tree, he perched and waited. Even he was surprised to see such a torn and ragged excuse of a man trudging down the path. He must have been wandering in the forest for hours upon hours. When the boy stumbled over his own feet and landed face down in a puddle, Vorador thought to simply end the creature's misery, until he sensed something else coming their way, something dark and decayed. He waited. Then it emerged from the darkening wood. The undead horse was unlike anything he'd seen, even in a millennia of sorcery and mysticism.  
  
  
  
The man-boy had called it, "Chance," and he cooed it and pleaded with it as if it could understand him. Vorador knew the Thirst well and the beast had it. He could see it in the hollow, sunken eyes. "Chance" would not be hearing any pleas from the boy. "Chance" would only want the boy's crimson blood. The beat-beat-beat of the heart within the flesh was all the creature surely heard and Vorador knew it to be as enslaved to that shadowed, basal rhythm as he knew himself to be. He made a decision then that was at once altruistic and selfish. Just as the creature reared to crush the boy's skull, Vorador leapt down from his treetop vantage with a hiss and drove the priest's cane through "Chance's" neck. The stick slipped easily through pallid skin and decaying flesh with a sloppy, slick noise. Though that did not stop the beast entirely, it did keep it from crushing the boy, who'd quickly crawled back to the base of an old, gnarled pine.  
  
The horse did not seem phased and rushed Vorador, blasting him in the chest with a hoof, sending him five meters through the air to crash into a tree trunk. Were he a living man, his ribcage would have certainly been crushed inward, puncturing lungs and squishing his heart to bursting. Being a vampire, his body was afforded a degree of resilience not normally attributed to the living. The blow was severe enough to leave him tottering on consciousness however and he was unprepared when the horse rushed him again, this time striking him as a bull, full on, head first. He would have surrendered to the inviting tugs of oblivion then had "Chance" the undead workhorse not decided to bite Vorador's shoulder. The sickening crunch of bone along with the pain brought enough rage to Vorador that he willed the strength to grab a hold of the protruding cane and twist. And twist, and twist, until the beast's head tore free of the body. The shriek of the boy and the dying sigh of the undead creature served as Vorador's lullaby.  
  
When he came to, the rain was falling steadier and the horse's rotten body was some distance away. His shoulder had been unnecessarily bandaged and the boy, who introduced himself as Shane, sat a few meters from him. Vorador hadn't realized what he intended to do at this point. Would he feed himself upon this Shane? What if he didn't? What should he say to this Shane? He couldn't tell this person what he was. He doubted this Shane would even know what a vampire is. His kind were myths and legends in places where they regularly fed. Out here beyond most vampyr's reach, not even wives tales were told of the blood drinkers. His pause gave him the answer he was looking for when the boy spoke again.  
  
"What's your name, Father?"  
  
There it was. He remembered now that he was dressed in the robe of the holy man that freed him. He laughed inwardly. What a sight it must have been. A true prayer answered, a priest falling from the sky to save the boy from an undead beast of burden. Vorador supposed that in his travels to find his loathsome brother, he'd have to deal with the humans. A disguise would be needed, and he would have to find a way to feed in secret. A priest can have any number of reasons to seek solitude and most people went to extraordinary lengths to avoid a holy man's attention for fear of the clergy's association with death. Yes, being a priest would suffice and he accepted it as a fortuitous happenstance.  
  
Shrugging, Vorador replied, "You may simply call me, Father. Tell me, Shane, why are you out here in this wretched weather all alone with nothing but the cursed farm animals of the land to follow you?"  
  
A burst of lightning flashed followed quickly by a splitting thunderclap, bringing him out of his reverie. The rain hardened and Vorador realized he was sitting in the alley next to Hagga's pale corpse. While the vision would not likely be considered as strange to a passer by, Vorador did not wish to linger. The boy would likely be getting himself into trouble by now. In his travels with Shane, he'd come to understand that much of the boy's inexperience and awkwardness was not his fault but that of his father's. Stories from the boy painted a bleak picture of upbringing and inwardly this provoked feeling within Vorador. He couldn't name it yet, but he was unwilling to give up on it until he'd figured it out. He'd keep Shane along and learn what he could while continuing to look for his brother.  
  
"Mortis," the voice said, putting a name to the deepest hate Vorador had. Looking to the voice, he was not surprised to see the dealer, wearing a dark brown cloak in ornate gold trim. His hood was pulled back, his short, black hair matting in the rain against his face. The dealer continued, "will be most unpleased to hear that his beloved brother has disregarded his blessed and proper station."  
  
"Be so kind as to take me to him and I'll offer him my sincerest apologies," Vorador replied.  
  
The dealer laughed, "You do not need me for that. If you seek your brother, you need only to follow the storm. He'll be expecting you however, by the time you reach him. He grows in strength, Vorador. With each passing day he brings more into himself and when the day of eternal night comes, he'll reward me well for warning him of you."  
  
Just as the words left the dealer's mouth, Vorador was upon him. While he moved quickly in the Brown Boar Tavern against a drunken mercenary, this was something else altogether different. Vorador's speed was mesmerizing, blinding, and in less than a heartbeat, the dealer was held up at arms length.  
  
"I would think it difficult to warn Mortis of my approach with your throat torn out," Vorador threatened, his hood falling back, fangs fully visible in his grim scowl.  
  
The irritating smirk returned, "Tsk, Vorador, such a temper." The dealer's hands reached up to the choking, unyielding grasp Vorador held. The dealer seemed to pull away from it, fading into a green smoke while he did so. Green smoke faded further into mist and then finally into air until Vorador was holding nothing but the brown cloak. Examining the cloak, Vorador cursed himself.  
  
"The gifts are different for us all," he said to himself and to the laughter he imagined was there.  
  
"Shane!"  
  
Startled from his daydream, Shane found himself looking at the face of the priest. A pile of roast had been placed in front of him and next to that, some ale.  
  
"I thought I told you not to speak with that dealer."  
  
"The dealer, Father? I didn't. I just watched him like you told me to. I guess I lost him, I'm sorry. Did he run off?" Shane looked around quickly before his belly forced him to see the plate of food again.  
  
With the patience he was learning that was necessary with Shane, Vorador replied, "It does not matter. Here, you can wear this cloak. It will help keep the rain off of you." Vorador handed Shane the brown cloak and sat across from him.  
  
"Thank you, Father," he placed the cloak to his side and tore a chunk from a roll. "Are you sure you wouldn't like any, Father?"  
  
"No, I couldn't stomach another bite. Eat. We will leave as soon as you've dried yourself."  
  
"We'll not be staying here? Not even for the night? It would be nice to sleep." Shane asked between mouthfuls. There was a twinge of pleading in his voice.  
  
"No. It is too dangerous and starting now, it appears time is working against us. Do not over worry yourself, young Shane. You will have plenty of time to sleep when you are dead."  
  
Shane gulped. 


End file.
